


You Deserved That

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Face Punching, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9079780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For a prompt about Ringo sticking up for Paul during the bad times of The White Album etc.





	

“What a cunt.”

George looked over at John, and raised an eyebrow as the singer stared into the depths of the cup of tea. He shrugged, and then nodded. George wasn’t the type to bitch behind someone’s back, not when he could do it to their face. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t agree.

“He’s jus’ takin’ over. What a fuckin’ twat. Can’t bear him, and neither can Yoko, and that is a _fact_.” George nodded again, privately thinking that Yoko could fucking stick it, and John shook his head, before speaking again. “What about Pattie, lad, what’s she thinkin’?”

“She’s just stayin’ out of it,” George said, quietly. “He’s insufferable, John.” He went silent again, and John picked up the slack.

“Honestly, lad, reckon we can ditch him?” he laughed, and George laughed, taking a sip of the green tea. “I… he’s not the Paul he used to be, that’s for sure. And I’m not the John I was.”

“Hey.”

“‘Ey, Rings.” George smiled as the drummer appeared in the doorway of the kitchen, and John nodded. Ringo headed for the kettle and began to make himself a cuppa. “We were just discussin’ Paul, like.”

Ringo nodded, and grabbed a mug.

“What a cunt he is. You know he’s been rerecording yer drum parts, right?” Ringo nodded again. “He’s a fucking whack job, lad. I can’t stick him. He’s so closed-minded, man, so trying to live in his own little bubble, like…”

George nodded. Ringo did not respond.

“Perfectionist nob. Reckons he’s better than all of us.”

“He’s just tryin’ to keep us goin’,” Ringo said, quietly, and John sighed.

“That’s the trouble with yeh, Rings. Yer soft. Yeh always w-”

John, to the moment of his death, never remembered exactly what happened next. One second Ringo was putting his mug down, and the next John was flat on the floor, Ringo standing over him, and his jaw aching.

“Don’t you tell me I’m soft, lad,” Ringo said, very, very gently. “Don’t you fuckin’ dare tell me that I’m soft. Yeh grew apart, like all people do, lad. Don’t go pretendin’ it’s all his fault. Yeah, he’s bein’ a prick right now. An’ so are you, Johnny. Don’t go pretendin’ yer some big, bad grown-up now ‘cause you an’ George stomached the curry in India better than I did.” John stared up at the soft-spoken drummer, and George stared, mouth open. “Not one of yeh isn’t being a prat right now. Me included, probably.”

“I’ll-” John stammered, and Ringo nodded.

“Hit me? Yeh. Sounds like you, lad. We’re colleagues. Do what yeh gotta do. Bitch about him to Yoko. To whoever’ll listen. Just don’t. Fuckin’. Do. It. Here.” He turned to George. “Very Hare Krishna of yeh, noddin’ along to John.” George flushed a little, but didn’t argue the point. “I’m gettin’ some ice for me fist, whatever wood yer brain’s made of has spread to yer jaw.” He opened the freezer, and grabbed an icepack, before kicking it shut and ambling out.

John looked up at George, who shrugged.

“Yeh deserved that, actually. We all did,” he murmured, and as he walked out, John picked himself up sheepishly.


End file.
